


considerable affection

by boom_goes_the_canon



Series: the fan-maker and the fan [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Background Attempts at Matchmaking, Canon Era, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras is Great, Feuilly is Also Bad At Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25064830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: And then Feuilly lifts his head to look around, and nearly brings it down again to the table.Enjolras, across the room, illuminated by the faint glow of candlelight and his own hair. Enjolras, asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, his hair loose and falling around him like waves.Enjolras, of all people. And they were alone.
Relationships: Enjolras/Feuilly
Series: the fan-maker and the fan [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815292
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	considerable affection

It was the end of a meeting, and Feuilly was engrossed in a book.

It was a regular occurrence by now, worn comfortable by habit. Combeferre had pressed this book into his hands, pleading an overfull bookshelf and a newly-acquired corpse that took up half the space.

“I’ve read it so many times,” Combeferre said, with a self-deprecating laugh. “I have most of it memorized by this point, and I believe Enjolras told me that you were particularly interested in Greece.”

Feuilly only nodded, running his fingers over the pages and the spine over and over. “It is true. Thank you.”

“You might want to pay particular attention to the third chapter,” Combeferre said, before practically leaping across the room to quiz Joly on the anatomy of the arm.

Feuilly started immediately. This particular volume went into detail about the customs of Ancient Greece, ostensibly about friendship, but the topics covered were making Feuilly’s cheeks increasingly redder. The third chapter, in fact, went into so much detail that he had to put it down and borrow some wine from Grantaire.

Perhaps Combeferre was trying to tell him something. He had been acting odd of late, always giving Feuilly knowing glances and nodding in Enjolras’ direction. It wasn’t very subtle.

Oh, but didn’t the thought of that just make Feuilly want to die a little inside. No offense to Enjolras. He had nothing against Enjolras. Enjolras was great. He was dedicated to the Cause, even more so than Feuilly, and his voice rang with sincerity when he spoke, about Liberation, about the Future, and about Freedom.

The first time Feuilly had mentioned his politics, Enjolras’ eyes had lit up, enough that he practically glowed from the inside out. Ever since then, every time Feuilly so much as glanced at him, he was aglow.

In addition to his politics, as if that were not enough, he was smart, well-informed in various subjects, and always eager to learn more. He was kind, and so earnest, enough to make Feuilly’s heart ache. The only fault Feuilly can find with him is his taste for the worst sort of punnery, and even that was a tiny bit endearing.

(In the back of his mind, some long-forgotten voice stirs, and says things about Enjolras’ appearance, about the way his hair shines and his cheeks flush, and about how the sight of those things was an extremely pleasant sight indeed. Feuilly ignores that voice and shuts it down when he can.)

Why, just a few months ago, he had been accidentally locked in this very room with only Enjolras for company, and he had enjoyed the experience. Not once did Enjolras try to turn the subject from politics. Not once did he sigh, or say he was bored, or give significant glances at his pocket watch, or ask in a supercilious tone whether Feuilly had any other conversation topics at all, perhaps.

It had been such a nice change of pace.

“I am well aware of my own deficiencies in these matters,” Enjolras had said, because Feuilly had asked, and it sounded like a confession. “I-I would like to make up for them.”

“Well, you are making good progress,” Feuilly said, clasping Enjolras’ hand awkwardly, and Enjolras’ hesitant smile made something warm kindle in his chest.

And so, they talked, building on each other’s ideas and opinions, debating and conceding and arguing, until they were both flushed with the success of their conversation. The fruits of that discussion were still tucked away in Feuilly’s drawers, converted into pamphlets and educational materials long ago.

And then, after Combeferre and Courfeyrac had rescued them both, Enjolras had looked him in the eye, and called him and his ideas ‘brilliant,’ with the brightest smile and such blinding sincerity. In front of people. Without a second of hesitation.

Feuilly very nearly has to clutch the book over his face to prevent the entire room from seeing how red his face is. Over one memory from last spring. God.

He’s hopeless over him. There’s no point in denying that. But did it have to be so plain on his face?

Across the room, Courfeyrac stands up, straightens his lapels, and clears his throat loudly. “I’ll take my leave, then,” Courfeyrac says, tossing a wink in Feuilly’s direction. “I’m off to attend to a distressed roommate.”

“Have fun,” Feuilly says weakly to the sound of the door swinging shut. The room is silent, in the eerie way of empty rooms. And then he lifts his head to look around, and nearly brings it down again to the table.

Enjolras, across the room, illuminated by the faint glow of candlelight and his own hair. Enjolras, asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, his hair loose and falling around him like waves.

 _Enjolras_ , of all people. And they were alone. Feuilly sets his book down with a swallow and a too-loud thunk on the table, and proceeds to approach, treading as lightly as possible.

(Suddenly, he’s a child again, creeping across floors for the books he was forced to abandon at bedtime. A single creak could give him away, and he quickly learned when to be careful, when to scurry. He clutched the books close to his chest, and brought them back to his small bed to read. The window was nearby, and the moon was often friendly to his efforts.)

Standing in front of Enjolras, he has to force his breathing to steady, his heart to stop its misguided attempts to beat straight out of its chest. He’s never seen Enjolras at peace. Revolution permeates the man’s very soul, and even in sleep, his eyes twitch restlessly beneath his eyelids, and his hands are curled into fists. His hairtie lies folded between the pages of a book.

The least Feuilly can do is to shift him so that he won’t wake up quite so stiff and pained. He’s done it to many a person in his time, and had it done to himself on numerous occasions. So, as anyone could imagine, it is quite annoying for his palms to be sweaty at this very moment. They were not sweaty just a few moments ago.

(‘Is Enjolras’ hair as soft as it looks?’ the rebellious little voice in his head wonders, and he can’t think about that right now, it’s not allowed—)

He puts his hands on either side of Enjolras’ head, and shifts it to the other side—

(—His hair is even softer than Feuilly could have ever imagined—)

—and Enjolras murmurs in his sleep, and his eyes flutter open, dazed, and he smiles up at Feuilly, and he grabs Feuilly’s hand, and he holds it against his cheek like that’s a perfectly normal thing to do.

“Hello,” Feuilly says, because sometimes he just doesn’t know what to say.

“Hello,” Enjolras says, and his brows suddenly furrow. “Why are you still here? Should you not be getting home? Did I keep you?”

“No!” He clears his throat and tries again. “No, you did not.”

“Good,” Enjolras says, absently, and he nuzzles Feuilly’s hand like a particularly affectionate cat. “That’s good.”

Feuilly cannot help the strangled noise he makes, and Enjolras’ eyes snap to full wakefulness in an instant. He searches Feuilly’s face for any sign of discomfort or distress, and perhaps he finds something, because he’s standing and apologizing profusely to Feuilly, and he’s talking about friendship and feelings and devotion, about Unity and Equality and Society.

He still hasn’t let go of Feuilly’s hand. In fact, he’s only gripped it tighter, eyes shining as he declaims about how important that the world be built on a solid foundation of friendship and love, and he talks a little about how Feuilly inspired this viewpoint, and how his beliefs meshed with Enjolras’ own, and how he couldn’t have come to that realization without Feuilly.

Enjolras’ face is red as he finishes his speech, and he shuffles his feet. “So, ah, I hope my feelings on this matter do not hinder our friendship?”

Feuilly shakes his head vigorously and squeezes Enjolras’ hand. “I don’t see why it would.”

Enjolras smiles, and now he’s definitely blushing, because Feuilly has only ever seen that shade of red in his paint box before. “I admire you,” he whispers, and every other time he had said that, he had practically shouted it to the rooftops, but this time it’s soft, like a confession.

“Do you really think I don’t feel the same?”

Enjolras blinks. “Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

“Courfeyrac told me to ask!” Enjolras protests, spluttering. “It is in the notes he gave me! Here, you can check for yourself.” He turns around, searches the table, and thrusts the offending piece of paper into Feuilly’s hands.

“That isn’t necessary,” he says, partly because he doesn’t want to get distracted with _this_ of all things, and mostly because Courfeyrac’s handwriting is nigh-unreadable.

“Are you certain?” Enjolras chews nervously on his lower lip, and Feuilly ducks his head to hide his smile. “I might have misinterpreted the situation, and made you uncomfortable in the bargain, and—"

“—The answer’s yes.” He clears his throat. “I mean, if you were still wondering.”

Enjolras smiles, and steps closer to him, and he skims his hands down Enjolras’ arms.

“Um, I’m no expert on these matters, mind you—” Feuilly says after a moment.

“Mm.”

“—and this is no way meant to be criticism, I have no complaints whatsoever—”

“Mm.”

“—but I think you’re supposed to kiss someone on the lips.”

Enjolras giggles and presses one final kiss on Feuilly’s forehead. “I’m working up the courage.” He bends down, kisses first Feuilly’s left cheek, then the right. “It just seems so odd, you know, to jump straight to it, without any preamble.”

“Hurry _up_ , Enjolras.” He thinks he will regret saying it.

Enjolras lets go of him after a few minutes, looking very much like the sun had come to rest in his hair. “They are going to be insufferable about this,” he says, pressing his forehead to Feuilly’s and laughing.

“So you’ve noticed them too?”

“Courfeyrac will never let me hear the end of it.” Enjolras groans and buries his face into the crook of Feuilly’s neck.

“I’m sure it will be all right.”

“You’ve never heard Courfeyrac gloat before,” Enjolras mumbles. “It’s a miracle he isn’t punched in the face more often.”

Feuilly pats him gingerly on the back. “If it helps, I’m pretty sure Combeferre is going to be smirking at me all throughout the meetings. You know the one.”

Enjolras nods solemnly. “We have to keep it a secret.”

“Pardon?”


End file.
